


In which we explain things to Callum

by china_shop



Category: Canadian Actor RPF, Fandom RPF, due South
Genre: Crack, Fic, Llamas, M/M, Mary Sue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-11
Updated: 2005-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Callum looks at us like he's seeing us for the first time. "Who are you guys? Where are you from?" The way he says it, it's more like "What psychiatric institution have you escaped from?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which we explain things to Callum

We're in the ship's library. You've just finished re-reading "An Unguarded Protectorate", and I'm one third of the way into the hockey fic for the third time, when Callum sticks his head in the door and looks around. We both glance up. No one else has been in here all day except the room service penguins, and I think when he sees us, he'll bolt. After all, we (I) haven't been particularly sane around him up until now.

But instead he raises his eyebrows at us, and comes over, the door shushing shut behind him on the thick carpet.

"Hey," he says, his hands balled in his jeans pocket. He's wearing an old grey sweater with a hole in it, and a scrappy blue t-shirt underneath.

I stare at him open-mouthed, having trouble believing that he's talking to us of his own free will. And then I realize what I'm wearing, and feel my face heat up, and fold my arms across my chest. Hopefully he can't read the slogan on my t-shirt.

"Uh, hi," you say, darting me a warning glance. "Can we help you?"

"Yeah, actually," he says. But then he stops, and shuffles his feet, his hands twitching like he wants a smoke. "I'm Callum."

"Yeah, we know," you smile.

"Have a seat," I manage, sighing inwardly with relief when the words come out casual and unstalkery, and in English. But then my big dumb brane blurts out, "Where's Hugh?" and I blush.

Callum glances at me, then seems to decide that you're a much safer bet. "He's, uh, playing with his new dog. I think they're cutting an album." He grins, engagingly. (Luckily he's not looking at me, and I manage to wipe away the drool before it runs down my chin.)

"So," you say, and gesture encouragingly.

"Oh yeah." He stares at his feet and scratches the back of his neck, then looks at you quizzically. "It's just that you two seem to be the only ones who know what's going on with Paul" (even if you do have a deranged llama on your team, I see him thinking) "and now he's got this other guy following him around, too. Built like a barn door. And he looks vaguely familiar. I just wondered--"

"--what the hell's going on?" you finish for him, tilting your head.

"Yeah." He pulls out a packet of smokes, and taps it restlessly against his thigh. "Uh, do you mind if we go outside?"

"Oh, absolutely," we chorus, wondering what the hell he wants.

I blink at Callum, as we follow him outside, and wonder whether maybe, just maybe, he's a teensy bit jealous of Smithbauer. Out of nowhere, I feel compelled to say: I'm terribly terribly sorry about Blade: Trinity -- but Wilby _was_ wonderful! Luckily, you glance at me just in time, and seem to see the words forming on my tongue. You kick me. I swallow them.

   
***

   
For a while we all stand and stare at the sea. It's a lovely evening, the sun is dipping into the ocean, sending orange ripples our way, and the sky is lit with luminous golden puffy clouds, set against a pale pale blue backdrop. There's one star. Maybe it's a planet. Or an airplane.

Callum smokes a cigarette, and I try not to stare and try not to stare, and look at you, and you're fixated on the little roll of tobacco, the way he holds it in his long lean fingers, and then puts it between his lips and _sucks_. You bite your tongue and I grin, suspecting you're trying to hold yourself back from licking him.

Or possibly from stealing his cigarette. It's hard to tell.

I curl my hands around the railing, and swing back, and look at the horizon, trying to shake off this obsessive fannish stalkeriness, and maybe I succeed, just a little, because when Callum says, "So, what's the deal?" I manage to say a whole sentence without fucking up. (Go me!)

"The thing is," I say. I drop one hand and lean a little closer to him for effect. He leans in, too, then realises what he's doing and stands up again, keeping his distance. "The thing is that that _isn't_ Paul Gross. It's really Fraser."

You nod agreement. "Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP," you say, for the avoidance of doubt.

Callum looks at us like he's seeing us for the first time. "Who are you guys? Where are you from?" The way he says it, it's more like "What psychiatric institution have you escaped from?"

I smile reassuringly, and say, "Have you ever heard of LiveJou--"

"OH MY GOD! STFU!" you shriek, kicking me again.

"Owww!" I yell. The peaceful silence of the evening is shattered.

"SFTU?" repeats Callum, confused. He backs away a step or two.

"Yes," I say, recovering quickly. "Uh, no. S.T.F.U. The, uh, Society for Transportationary--"

"Theoretical," you interject.

"Right," I agree. "The Society for Theoretical--Literal and, uh, Fictional--" I stumble.

"Unrealities!" you cry, triumphantly, saving the day.

"Literal?" says Callum, skeptically.

"It's a silent 'L'," I explain.

"Riiight." Callum lights another cigarette. Takes a long drag. Seagulls cry overhead, and in the distance I can hear a wolf howling. "So. That's really Fraser."

"Yeah." We both nod emphatically.

"Not Paul."

"Exactly," you say. "And he thinks you're Ray Kowalski. That's why he's been acting so strange."

"Huh." There's a curious gleam in Callum's eye. "Benton Fraser, fictional Mountie. In the flesh."

"Yup." You and I start to get worried. The information seems to be taking a long time to sink in.

Callum smokes, staring speculatively out to sea. We watch. Finally he throws the butt overboard. "Hot." He rolls his shoulders. "Wonder if--"

And then he shakes his head, clams up, and says a polite but distant thanks to us. "See you round." And slouches off towards the dining room.

"I bet he was going to say 'I wonder if I could talk him into a threesome'," I say excitedly.

"He should've checked the library," you say, clearly in full agreement. "There're some excellent reference materials along those lines."

"With Hugh? Really?" I'm surprised.

"Well, no, not exactly, but I'm sure we could find something if we looked long and hard. We could adapt something."

"It's our mission! Our _vocation_!" I exclaim. "To the batcave!"

"Wrong fandom!" you laugh at me.

"You know what I mean!"

   
***

   
We hunt through the available volumes for some hours. It's sort of like a research party from Buffy, except that we're not looking for a demon so much as a beast with three backs. Finally you slam your heavy tome closed, and we look at each other with bleary eyes.

"How's he going to persuade him?" I wonder aloud.

You prop your head on your hand, and slouch low over the table. "And what about Mark?"

"He's going to have to lie," I theorise, dismissing Smithbauer with an airy wave of my hand. "Pretend to be Ray or something. And god only knows how he'll convince Hugh to go along with it."

"This isn't right," we chorus. "Poor Fraser!"

"We'll have to stop him," I thump my fist on the table. "We have to protect Fraser."

You raise your eyebrows. "I can't believe you'd try to _stop_ a threesome."

You're mocking me. I poke my tongue out. "Shut up and help me concoct a brilliant plan."


End file.
